Var :: Existent

Whether I am stone or iron, I will be brought
back to life, sailed in on ships from sea, led in
through the gates. To be a tree is to be a tree: green
scissored into leaves turning too slow to catch up.

The first time was better, two bodies orbiting,
depending on the counteracting weight of the other.
Which means love when it’s read closely. Love
isn’t that at all, what it means to be real. I must
do something wrong, these vibrations in the air

follow the embankment away from water
up to dusk where hands touch the story
starts far away.

Andrew Wessels has lived in Houston, Cambridge, and Las Vegas. Currently, he splits his time between Istanbul and Los Angeles. His poems, translations, and collaborations can recently be found in or are forthcoming from VOLT, Fence, Colorado Review, The Journal, Washington Square Review, Grist, Handsome, Fact-Simile, and 580 Split. He edits The Offending Adam.